Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway

by Diana Dempsey

“I bet you’re overreacting, girl,” Shanelle tells me.

  “I don’t think so. And would you believe the sidewalks were so crowded I had to walk underneath a ladder right before? That couldn’t have helped.”

  “You are way too smart to believe in superstitions. Anyway, Trixie and I will cheer you up. We’re free for lunch and so are you. So how about we meet at that restaurant we liked the look of? On 46th Street?”

  “The one with the brick walls and the Broadway posters? Where was it exactly?”

  Shanelle gives me directions. I alert her that my mother is likely to join us and I presume Bennie will as well. In short order, I find out I’m half wrong.

  “I’m about to pass out from hunger,” my mother informs me over the phone. “There was so much turbulence on that little plane, they didn’t give us any food. Why the heck pay for that first class if they don’t feed you? Anyway, that Bennie wants to go straight to some used-car lot in the Bronx there. How crazy is that?”

  Bennie himself warned me that his secret agenda during his Manhattan getaway was to visit a variety of used-car lots. I predicted that wouldn’t go over well with my mother. “Where are you now?” I ask her.

  “In a limo. Where are we?” I hear her ask the driver. “FDR Drive,” she tells me a moment later.

  “Give him your phone so I can tell him where to drop you off.”

  She obliges and I give the driver the directions. “You’re living large,” I tell my mother, “flying first class and riding a limo.”

  “And staying at that Plaza Hotel,” she reminds me. “That Bennie likes to do it up nice.”

  Shanelle and Trixie learn just how nice when we congregate at the restaurant. Shanelle is styling in a pink and black pencil skirt and pink cowl neck sweater and Trixie couldn’t be more adorable in a navy fit-and-flare shirtdress with a tie waist. But no one has more panache than Hazel Przybyszewski, who no doubt looked right at home in first class. No one would ever guess how thin her dyed red hair has become given the impressive pouf into which it’s been styled. And she is sporting not only lipstick but mascara and eye shadow, too. More to the point, she is dolled up in her new full-length brown sable fur coat.

  Yes, you read that right. My mother is now the proud owner of a genuine fur. I’m not sure she takes it off when she goes to bed at night.

  “Oh, my Lord!” Trixie holds my mother at arms’ length to better admire the fur. I note that our fellow would-be diners grouped around the maître d’s stand are giving it a gander as well. “Mrs. P, I have never seen anything like this.”

  My mother preens. “Russian sable. The very finest. That Bennie gave it to me for Christmas.”

  “Animal pelts sewn together may not be the most politically correct gift,” I observe. “But this is certainly beautiful.”

  My mother glares at me. “Tell me about it after you order your hamburger.” She strokes the fur. “Feel how soft it is. And I’m never cold. It could be twenty degrees below zero and I could be wearing nothing but my underwear—”

  “Mrs. P, you scamp!” Trixie cries, her eyes shining.

  “Not that I would ever do such a thing,” my mother hastens to add, “because you could get hit by a car and land at the hospital at any time, but you get my point. I’d be as toasty as a bug in a rug. And get a load of this.” She whips open the coat on both sides. “A hundred percent silk lining. Not that they have polyester at that Saks Fifth Avenue fur salon.”

  “They have one of those in Cleveland?” Shanelle asks me.

  “In Beachwood,” I report. “On the east side.”

  I have walked through that salon in years past to see if perchance any items fit my father’s budget. For you see, my mother has long hankered after a fur. And being my mother, she made no bones about it. My dad, with his cop’s salary, never could see his way clear to making such an extravagant purchase.

  But it took Bennie Hana barely two months’ acquaintance to gift my mother with this sable. I don’t know for sure, but I bet it retails for fifteen grand. Of course, Bennie is well-to-do and Pop isn’t. Still, seeing him outshine my father in this regard fills me with a certain melancholy.

  “And the lining is exactly the same color as the sable,” Trixie coos, “to avoid an unsightly contrast. And there are eye hooks instead of buttons so as not to mar the fur.”

  “I like this.” I point to my mother’s name embroidered in white thread on the inside right silk panel. Hazel, it reads in lovely flowing script. I’m glad the seamstress didn’t attempt to spell out Przybyszewski. That probably would’ve cost extra; plus, the odds of getting it wrong are extremely high.

  Shanelle shakes her head. “You call this a Christmas gift, Mrs. Przybyszewski, but in my book a pair of slippers is a Christmas gift. This here is a statement.” She lowers her voice to a deeper, more meaningful register. “I’d even go so far as to say this is a statement of intention.”

  My mother gives us all a sly smile. “You might be on to something there, Shanelle.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Oh, my Lord, Mrs. P!” Trixie squeals. “Are you telling us that Bennie’s proposed?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” my mother admits.

  Relief courses through my veins. It’s bad enough fearing that Pop will propose to Maggie on Valentine’s Day. I don’t want also to have to worry that Mom will get hitched to Bennie.

  Not that I have anything against the man. In fact, I like and admire him. It’s just that I harbor tender hopes that my parents will reunite. And yes, I realize that makes me about as mature as the average 12-year-old.

  “Let’s just say,” my mother goes on, “that this is no fly-by-night relationship. You ask me, that Bennie’s got it all planned out. First he gives me the fur coat. Then he brings me to New York City. Who knows what happens next?”

  “So he’s serious about you,” I say. “But are you serious about him?”

  She looks away. “Bennie’s got some negatives. But what man doesn’t?”

  As that rhetorical question hangs in the air, the maître d’ escorts us to our table. This restaurant looks very New York City to me, which is why I love it even before I’ve tasted a morsel. It’s deep and skinny and perfectly lit—not too light and not too dark—and the walls are red brick and the floor is wide plank hardwood and the tables are draped with white tablecloths. There is one odd feature, though.

  As we sit down, my mother gestures to the framed posters of Broadway musicals that line the brick walls. “Who the heck ever heard of any of these shows? Man on the Moon? Me Jack, You Jill?”

  “They’re all flops,” the maître d’ tells her. “But here at Joe Allen we like to give them respect nonetheless. Would you like me to hang your fur?”

  “Are you crazy?” she responds, and that’s the end of that conversation.

  “I read about this place,” Trixie says as we pore over the menu. “Back in the day, a musical called Kelly had only one performance—”

  “Dream Angel might beat that record,” Shanelle mutters.

  “Anyhoo,” Trixie goes on, “the people on the show gave their poster to the owner, Joe Allen, and he hung it on the wall and the tradition pretty much took off from there.”

  “Well, I sure understand better than I used to how much work goes into a Broadway musical,” I say. “Whether it flops or flies. So I like that they do this.”

  “What I like is what I see going by.” Shanelle pivots to watch a sizzling steak en route to a fellow diner. “I don’t want to overeat at lunchtime but my, oh my.”

  “And those fries, too,” Trixie breathes.

  Clearly there are many delicious ways to get fat here. “How about we split one skirt steak four ways?” I make this suggestion even though I hate to give my mother the satisfaction of seeing me order beef so soon after my animal-pelt remark. “And let’s get the pan-roasted scallops, too, with the beet-quinoa salad.”

  “That sounds healthy,” Trixie opines, and the deed is done.

  Shane
lle sets aside her menu and looks at me. “So what went wrong with the lawyers?”

  “Something went wrong with the lawyers?” Trixie asks.

  “You saw a lawyer?” my mother bellows. “Hip hip hooray! You’re finally divorcing that Jason!”

  “I am not divorcing Jason, Mother,” I say. “And lower your voice.” People are glancing our way again and this time it’s not because of the fur. I explain my abortive attempt to provide character evidence on behalf of Sebastian Cantwell. “I’m wondering if I should call him and try to explain,” I conclude.

  “He won’t want no explanation,” my mother says. “He’ll want an ‘I’m sorry.’ ”

  “He might also want groveling,” Shanelle says.

  “I am sorry, but what was I supposed to do?” I say. “The lawyers told me I had to be honest.”

  Shanelle eyes me with characteristic penetration. I am uncomfortable, as usual, under her gaze. It always makes me wonder just how much I’m trying to hide, from myself and everybody else. Of course, she nails exactly what’s going on. “So is it possible you think Cantwell might really be guilty of this tax fraud?”

  I hem and haw because Shanelle’s question is hard to answer. I don’t want to mention Mario’s certainty that Mr. Cantwell is guilty, partly because I don’t want to appear swayed by his opinion (even though I am) and partly because I’m the only person at this table who knows that it was Mario who served up Mr. Cantwell on a platter to the feds.

  Speaking of which, our food arrives, already split onto four plates. We dig in.

  “I’m sure no animal pelts were harmed in the production of this meal,” my mother remarks.

  “All right, Mom, you’ve made your point.” I feel a tad better now that I’ve eaten a few bites of steak. It’s amazing how that works. “Anyway, if I call Mr. Cantwell, he’ll know I’m being upfront—”

  “Upfront, shmup-front,” my mother says. “What he’ll be is mad. And if a man is going to be mad, my advice is to make yourself scarce until he simmers down.”

  “I think you’re right, Mrs. P,” Trixie says. “And probably Mr. Cantwell is getting this character evidence from other people, too, right, Happy? So if you give it a little time, maybe he’ll forget that your character evidence wasn’t so good.”

  Unfortunately, Mr. Cantwell forgetting what I told his lawyers is about as likely as him renouncing capitalism and going to live on an ashram in India. “You won’t believe who I ran into at the lawyers’ office.” I don’t wait for them to guess. “Mario.”

  Gasps all around.

  “You see?” Trixie cries. “I bet he’ll give good evidence!”

  I’m not so sure.

  “So can that Mario make any money now that that show of his got cancelled?” my mother wants to know.

  “His show didn’t get cancelled,” I protest. “It’s on hiatus.”

  My mother eyes me dubiously. “That’s not what they called it in my day.”

  “It’s true, Mrs. P,” Trixie asserts, spearing a scallop. “We heard on LIVE this morning that he’ll be back with fresh episodes next week.”

  “You know I like that Mario,” my mother says. “But all they’re showing of that crazy ghost show of his are reruns. So I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Shanelle is eyeing me again and I can guess why. This time she’s trying to ascertain how I feel after running into Mario in the flesh. Wisely, and kindly, she doesn’t ask. Instead she pivots toward my mother and broaches a fresh topic. “So did you hear that the woman who wrote Dream Angel got killed last night?”

  Talk about a conversation starter. That subject keeps us chatting through our entrée and dessert, which is lemon cheesecake topped by blueberry compote, also split four ways.

  “It was so different this morning at the theater,” Trixie says as we wait for the bill. “Oliver and Enzo—he was in today—really talked to us. Both of them wanted to know what changes we suggested to Lisette.” Her eyes widen. “I think they might even make some of them.”

  “Enzo especially was so considerate it made me feel guilty about spying on him and Oliver last night,” Shanelle says. “But I got over that pretty fast.”

  “They said they want to get your ideas this afternoon, Happy,” Trixie goes on.

  That should provide a much-needed psychological boost. We settle the bill.

  “The only bad thing, Mom,” I say as we rise to depart, “is that there won’t be any previews of Dream Angel while you’re in town.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Shanelle says as we exit the restaurant and blink in the now bright sunshine of a January day. “I could swear I heard Oliver tell somebody there would be an evening preview Sunday.”

  Trixie shakes her head. “I don’t know how they can pull that off with all the changes they’re making. Anyhoo, where’s your suitcase, Mrs. P?”

  “That Bennie’s got it in his limo. Tell the cabbie I want to go to St. Patrick’s Cathedral,” she orders me as I flag down a cab.

  I am flabbergasted. “All by yourself?”

  She brandishes her cell phone. “I want to take the tour. Rachel put the app on my phone.”

  “And how are you going to get from the cathedral to the hotel? She’s staying at the Plaza,” I add as an aside to Trixie and Shanelle, who react with oohs and aahs.

  My mother appears amazed that I’m even asking. “I’ll take another cab up that Fifth Avenue.”

  I am filled with wonderment. Indeed, it is a whole new world. All by her lonesome, my mother is calmly riding cabs around Manhattan and taking tours via app. It took a while—mostly it took her getting her first job outside the home—but there’s no question that a modernized Hazel Przybyszewski is venturing boldly about the world as never before.

  We send her on her way and set off on foot for the theater, walking past one restaurant after the next, many with colorful canopy awnings that jut out over the sidewalk. In fact, this is the so-called Restaurant Row that caters mostly to theatergoers. Some of these restaurants—like Barbetta, Orso, and Le Rivage—I know have been around for decades.

  “Your mom is braver than mine,” Trixie remarks.

  “I can’t help worrying she’s going to get into trouble,” I say. “Get lost or get mugged or something. I worry more about her than I do about Rachel.”

  Shanelle chuckles. “I pity the man who tries to mug your mother, Happy. She’ll slug him with that purse of hers.”

  Which weighs as much as a bowling ball.

  “How would your mom handle Manhattan by herself?” Trixie asks Shanelle.

  Silence. Trixie and I both glance at Shanelle, who’s averting her gaze. Finally: “Let’s not talk about my mom,” she says. A few seconds later she stops walking and Trixie and I halt with her.

  “Look,” she says, and it breaks my heart to see her eyes brimming with tears. “It’s my mom that’s got me so worried. But we have to go back to the theater to work and I just can’t talk about her because I’ll get too upset.”

  “Oh, Shanelle.” Trixie grabs her in a hug and of course I follow suit. We three huddle for a moment, attracting glares from those locals who disapprove of urban hugging. That, or of tourists blocking the sidewalk.

  “Is your mom sick?” Trixie murmurs, and for a moment I can see that Shanelle is teetering on the verge of serious wailing.

  “Let’s talk about it tonight,” she manages to say, and Trixie and I promise to inquire no further until we’re alone and settled in for the night.

  I, too, am in a pensive mood as we arrive at the theater. Neither of my parents has health problems, which is a blessing. Shanelle’s worry about her mom puts into perspective my relatively trivial concern that one or both of my parents will marry other people. Which, by the way, would only mean that they were moving on with their lives.

  Hence it is a slightly chastened Happy Pennington who spends the next few hours reviewing her notes on Dream Angel and chatting about them with Enzo Donati, who indeed does put on a good show of bein
g a nice guy. Given the nature of his nocturnal banter with Oliver, however, I am not convinced.

  I’m standing in a stall in the backstage ladies room, almost ready to exit, when someone bursts into the restroom. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore!” a female voice hisses, I’m pretty sure in the direction of somebody still in the corridor.

  My ears perk up. I could swear that was Kimberly’s voice.

  A muffled response—from a man?—wafts into the ladies room just before the door closes. Then the door opens again and a second woman strides in, one with surprisingly heavy footfalls.

  “Uncle Jerry, you can’t come in here!” the female voice cries, and now I recognize the voice as certainly belonging to Kimberly. I also understand why those hoofbeats sound so heavy: they belong to Kimberly’s uncle, the famous Broadway photographer Gerald Drayson. He dresses nicely and he’s impeccably groomed, but he is not the most svelte of individuals.

  “Young lady, this conversation is not over,” Uncle Jerry says.

  This must be some discussion if he’s followed Kimberly into the ladies room to continue it. I could exit my stall, but what fun would that be? Plus, I will admit to a fair amount of curiosity about the twenty-something female whose primary goal in life these days seems to be taking half-naked pictures of my husband. So I stay put.

  “This is a conversation we should have had a long time ago,” Uncle Jerry goes on. “I cannot believe I am just finding out about this now.”

  “Why does any of this matter?” Kimberly shrieks.

  “Because this explains why you had such a hard time getting along with Lisette. I never understood it before, but now I do.”

  This squabble is getting more fascinating by the second. I have long known that eavesdropping can be a highly entertaining, not to mention illuminating, pastime. And on this occasion I needn’t even feel all that guilty. This surveillance is pretty much being foisted upon me. And Kimberly and Uncle Jerry seem so involved, apparently they haven’t bothered to consider that they might not be alone.

  “Everybody had trouble getting along with Lisette,” Kimberly asserts, a statement with which I wholeheartedly agree.